


Zero Sum Game

by Black_Dove



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Ableist Language, Blood, Canon Disabled Character, Drift Side Effects, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hermann Gottlieb Has MS, M/M, Multiple Sclerosis, POV Newton Geiszler, Physical Disability, Post-Drift, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Dove/pseuds/Black_Dove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newt gestures hotly to the clipboard clutched to her chest. “You’re the hot-shot neurologist here and even you don’t know any more than I do what-what a… goddamned neural load’s gonna’ do to an already compromised nervous system. You don’t know! No one does because it’s not meant to friggin’ happen! “</p>
<p>How the drift affects Hermann, and how Newt tries to maintain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shattering

**Author's Note:**

> There are loads of fics about drift effects and Newt, and yet hardly any about Hermann. I know there are a few headcanons (and some amazing fics) out there where Hermann's disability is related to MS... and I got to wondering, seen as MS is a neurological autoimmune disease, how would the body of someone affected with MS handle a drift - especially a drift using homemade machinery and a kaiju brain. 
> 
> This is my attempt at exploring that. And it's heavy on the angst, especially initially, so if that's not your thing, I suggest abandoning ship now... but it won't all end in tears. I love these two too much to keep 'em apart. 
> 
> Please note that I am in no way a licensed medical professional; although I've researched heavily, I cannot endorse any claims made in this work. This is purely fiction and my headcanon. 
> 
> I'd also like to warn again that this is from Newt's POV; I'm of the opinion that Newt does suffer mental health problems, and as such, suicide (attempts, ideation) also feature.

_Blue drift… The chasm opens, the pull beckons; threads yanking, tugging:_

_Mother’s sequins pulled roughshod through too-starched stage clothes, the tremor of excessive wine impeding progress…_

_Glinting, speckles of history:_

_Chasing magpies, grey-smoke fog tangling around gangly limbs and twisted oaks… and Karla, barely 13? is staring at him:_

_“Sie sind ihm nicht.”_

_“I’m Newt.” He whispers back. “I… I mean… Ich habe mich in ihn verliebt.”_

_“Wo ist mein Bruder?” She steps back. “Hast du meinen…”_

_He covers his ears… “No, no no, no! I didn’t…”_

_“…Bruder…”_

_Newt chokes on a word:”…know.”_

_She whispers through his hands: “…getötet?”_

_Crimson cascades, the grass swims with blood and chalk numbers… the breach is beneath him, Hermann’s ladder stretches up, up, up…_

_Hermann’s beautiful_ _infinity is waiting._

_He climbs._

_Hands shaking. Anvils tied to his feet._

_Karla screams._

_“Ich bin…” He pants. His fingers won’t close. The periphery dims, the fog closes in. “…nicht…” His legs have disappeared into nothing, bones liquid calcium, “…tot.”_

_Newt falls._

* * *

 

“Fuck.” He forces his eyes open. Fresh blood splatter polka-dots the bed sheets. He licks his lips, the copper tang on his tongue feel acidic. He exhales shakily, raising his eyes to Hermann – still asleep, still unmoving, still pale…

Still breathing.

The machine’s still beeping his gentle heartbeat.

“Dude,” Newt whispers, “was that yours or mine that time?”

_Beep… beep… beep._

“Probably both.” He drops his head back onto the bed – fuck the blood, it’s goddamn symbolic or some shit – squeezing his eyes shut, the fog still flimsy behind his lids, Karla’s “getötet” still lingering in his ears. He chuckles, wanly, and his typical incredulity is discernible: “But Christ, c’mon, infinity? Really? “

Footsteps fall somewhere in the distance, the gait even, hurried. Heels. A woman.

“Only you’d dream in fucking math.” Newt mutters into the sheets.

Outside the door, the clickety-clack abruptly stops.

Newt lifts his head.

The handle turns, the door swings open: Karla. In the flesh.

_Getötet_  echoes somewhere in his skull. Newt stumbles to his feet because it must be bad if _she's_ flown halfway across the globe, and the sting in his nose is immediate: tears flood his vision, Karla swims in a hazy mess of colour and light. He squeezes Hermann’s fingers, their placid warmth keeping _getötet_ somewhat at bay. “I-I…” He stammers, words disintegrating as his mouth goes dry. He blinks. Karla’s in his focus again, tears are coursing down his cheeks.

She immediately drops her bag, her eyes flicking to Hermann as she rushes forward and wraps her arms around Newt’s shoulders. “Ssshh.” Her slightly swollen belly pushes into his solar plexus. Seconds pass, and Newt wraps his free arm around her, uncertainty making him hesitate.

The only thing he absolutely will _not_ do is let go of Hermann. And the only coherent thought running through his scrambled mind at that moment is, _Fuck, she’s tall too._

She soothes further, rubbing his back. He can feel himself succumbing to further tears, but manages to bear down the lump in his throat, and disengage the growing pit in his stomach. He gently pulls away from her.

Her eyes are wet, too. She places both hands on his shoulders, her eyes – they’re Hermann’s eyes – boring into him. “No one blames you, Newt.”

He swipes at the tears… and blood… on his face, turning away out of her hands… and he crumbles, the magnitude of five stupid little words crushing his all too delicate faҫade. He hears himself whimper – what the fuck, dude? – and drops to his knees; hard floor slaps his kneecaps.

He drops Hermann’s hand, in case… just in case… _in case I drag you down_.

The panicky hole in his belly threatens to capsize his entire demeanour, which had been so inexplicably maintained. He places his palms on the floor in an attempt to ground himself against the static-charged tumult his brain’s slowly becoming. _Can’t, mustn’t, must not lose it, not now… not when Hermann’s so…_

_…Far away?_

_…Lost?_

Newt gulps fresh bile, the last three syllables forcing themselves to the forefront: … _Beyond hope?_

Karla is suddenly holding a perfectly folded sheet of tissue, thrusting it in his face. She squats carefully, legs demurely pressed together, balance no doubt shaken with an added 2inches worth of heels and a changing centre of gravity.

Her eyes threaten to penetrate him, a familiar icy disdain stripping him to painful self-awareness.

“Have you been checked out? I mean, your nose-“

He takes the tissue, clenching it in a fist. “Y-yeah, I’m good… just, side-effects and anyway, you’re not here for me, it’s Hermann who’s… shit, fuck, I –“ He stares back, more tears threatening, their sting persistent.

Deep breath, he tried again: “He was _fine…”_ He drops his eyes. “Well, okay, now I think about it, maybe a little, uh, shaky? Tired? Extremely tired. But Christ, we’re all fucking tired, y’know?” Newt swallows. “And then, it just… he just… ”

He lazily swipes the bloody mucous from his face. “Karla, I didn’t know. Dude, I swear, if I… if he…it’d have never happened… the drift… and… yeah...”

_…And I’d be dead and Hermann would be dead and so would you and the rest of this goddamned… no, not going there._

“I know, Newt. I know that.” She stands, slowly, a deep sigh escaping her throat, and sits gingerly on the bed. “It took him nearly a year to even tell me,” she whispers, and Newt could swear she choked a bit on the last syllable. Her eyes are cast down on Hermann’s unmoving figure, her hand ghosting his shin.

He wants to stand, to sit near her, to swap silly Hermann stories, to bitch about their shared frustrations in attempting to raid Hermann’s seemingly impervious walls and fortresses.

He rearranges himself to sit on his ass instead, using the tissue to properly clear the snot-blood-tears mess. _Fucking get it together, dick-brain._

Abruptly, she stands, reaching for the clipboard at the foot of the bed, her back toward him as she flicks through the notes. “Do you know exactly what happened? ”

Her voice is so much like her brother’s, that penetrating, crisp, perfect-annunciation.

He swallows, hard, suddenly erupting acid threatening to choke him, cold dread washing away the gentle comfort provided by her presence. “I don’t know,” He whispers. “N-not for sure. I mean, he was alone, in the lab, still doing math and climbing that ladder in the state he was in, who would _do_ that? I know he felt like shit because _I_ felt like shit too. Like, heavy feeling…”

He sees her turn in his periphery, and he clumsily stands. “the drift, the connection or whatever… but they checked us out after it all went down and I guess he got given the okay. Well, I dunno what they told him and I never asked ‘cause I know he’d have been super pissed and he was sorta’ avoiding me but I thought that was because of the video, and how I hugged him… and what I said, but it was just, god damn it,” Pain lashes through his belly at the memory.

_Focus!_ “Anyway, sorry, yeah, it’s what? Two days after the drift and I got the heavy feeling, like, weights were strapped to my ankles or something. And dizzy as fuck. But I just thought that was like, all the alcohol and party-slash-wake and the drift and not having had sleep for days, the come-down after the adrenaline high and… uh, sorry, off topic again.

“So, uh, it was 2:32 am when I went to my room, and I only know that ‘cause I was texting my mom, and then, like, I dunno, I just suddenly – the drift thing. The room just swam, and I threw up, and I felt, well, like the motherfucker of headaches? And I just knew, I just had to get to Hermann, something was _wrong,_ because he wasn’t in my head, like the Hermann circuit was just suddenly shorted out…”

Feeling her staring at him – no, analysing him – he frantically tries to re-engage long since switched off memories. His hands shake, he forces them into his pockets, then out, and instead reaches for the only calming influence – Hermann. “And I ran to the lab, and I’m yelling, and then I get there and he’s on the floor-“ A sudden sob is quick to cut him off, the image an open wound, raw, weeping.

“And he’s crumpled on the floor, and I’m screaming, and then someone comes, and I yell at ‘em to get help, and I just, knelt next to him and then medics came and Herc came and they took him away.

“I stayed all night, they did whatever, MRIs and shit, I just waited, just telling myself he’s tired, it’s the drift, too much math, that’s _it._ That’s mother fucking it. And then Herc finally tells me about the MS and things aren’t looking good now and I sorta’ lost it at him because they shoulda’ told me and it all makes sense, the way he’s OK sometimes, then not. I mean, I never asked about the cane and I shoulda’ goddamned figured it out, I’m a fucking _biologist!_ ”

He sits heavily on the bed, frantically grabbing Hermann’s hand. “I shoulda’ told him not do it. But I didn’t and it’s my fucking fault, isn’t it? God, what if he doesn’t even wake up and I lose him and he doesn’t know that I meant-“ He forces air into his lungs, finally daring to meet her face, daring her to finish the sentence...

She just stares, mouth slightly parted.

Tears glisten in her lashes.

She doesn’t speak. Seconds stretch infinitely.

Newt remembers Hermann’s damned infinity infiltrating his – their? – dream.

The silence cuts, the heavy emotional effusion has left him hollow, and Newt’s afraid to dig any deeper; it becomes unchartered territory and usually – literally – ends in blood, sweat, and tears . He jumps up, cold stinging his hand as he drops Hermann’s fingers. “Sorry, I, uh, I better give you some time. With your brother. With Hermann.” He whispers, crossing the room to open the door. He catches sight of blood on the sheets, his globules peppering the austere white.

Newt forces himself out the door.

He hears her follow him. “You know he’s not going to die,” she gently tells his retreating form, and it’s almost like hearing Hermann – kindness wrapped up in barbs. “He’ll… get through this.” She says, “He’ll be okay, Newt.”

He jerks to a halt, sneakers squeaking obnoxiously on the floor. Aside from asinine platitudes, he just swears he hears derision and it cracks him.

“What?” He hisses, whirling around, and already the prickle of threatening tears is hot in his nose.

He’s aware of bodies in the corridor but no one takes precedence, not now, not over Hermann.

He gestures hotly to the clipboard clutched to her chest. “You’re the hot-shot neurologist here and even you don’t know any more than I do what-what a… goddamned neural load’s gonna’ do to an already compromised nervous system. You _don’t_ fucking know! _No one does_ because it’s _not_ meant to friggin’ happen! “

He can hear his voice climbing. “A-a-and I’ve seen the scans and I can understand a fucking scan and it’s quite apparent that there’s a lot of bad shit going on his brain and please don’t fucking look at me like that Karla, because I _know_ precisely what his brain is capable of and I know what MS does a-a-and do you have _any_ goddamned clue what he- what it would _do to_ him? Just – god _damn_ it! I know that this is _anything_ but okay so don’t you dare-”

Warm hands gently clasp his shoulders and Newt forces his eyes shut, his brain is screaming where his mouth wouldn’t keep up _: it’ll DESTROY him, don’t you people GET it?_

But he’s turning into the small arms enveloping him, just warm floral musk tinged with hair dye, alcohol, and grief. Mako. He hears the door to Hermann’s room gently close and then he permits himself to sob.

***

Three hours later, having given up on an erratic semblance of sleep and in the midst of yet another damned nosebleed, Newt is drawn to the lab. He stands in the doorway, surveying: the tidy mess of remains at his workstation, the scalpel not been used since before the drift; the fragmentary, chalked beginnings of a covariance ( _maybe? It’s been a while)_ matrix never completed, the ladder positioned just so, as though it were waiting for Hermann to simply walk in at any moment to finish what he started.

He feels his lips curl as a memory of Hermann’s voice rattled his skull: _It is neither here, nor there, New-ton!_

Newt sighs, instead sitting heavily in his – no, Hermann’s – chair, dabbing his nose, and pulling out his phone to focus on the task at hand: The drunken video, taken barely two days before the non-Hermann black noise infiltrated his brain, and the enormity of the entire save-the-world parade withered to inconsequential bullshit.

The video, now gone viral: Tendo’s attempt to capture the excitement, the buzz, just moments after Mako and Raleigh were brought back. He can’t help but wonder if Tendo got a royal ass-kicking for such an idiotic, juvenile thing ( _and why the fuck didn’t I think of it first_?!) _…_ but, whatever. They were drunk, on too much alcohol, on success, on failure, on love, and most definitely on grief.

Now, Newt stares at the screen, at the pictures flashing in front of his face, and he can’t shake the perverse idea that these images must come from a wholly different era – no, a completely alternate universe, not this earth, not this Shatterdome, not these people… not this Hermann, his Hermann.

The footage continues, and after further drunken soliloquies from Tendo himself, the focus is suddenly on Newt and Hermann, sat down on a bench, hips touching, Newt’s arm draped around an increasingly uncomfortable, shy Hermann.

Tendo’s voiceover: “And here, humanity, your saviours: Doctors Geizler and Gottlieb. The pair who only managed to drift-”

“With a friggen kaiju!” Newt interjects, staring squarely at the camera. “But kids, don’t try it at home, k? It’s just that-”

And the switch is remarkable as Hermann’s inferiority complex gives way to his typically blistering infuriation. “Dr. Geizler, I hardly find it appropriate to infer-“

Newt deftly cuts him off, saying the most amazing thing: “I fucking love this guy,” squeezing his captive to further emphasise the single declaration, heavy with multitudes of inexpressible sentiments.

And Hermann’s body instinctively shrinks from the contact, and his mouth habitually opens for rebuttal until the words – not only those said, but those left _unsaid –_ sink in and a heady blush crawls up his neck.

Hermann’s rendered momentarily defenseless.

And Newt remembers the overwhelming desire he had just to turn and meet his lips with Hermann’s own, and he could have sworn the heady heat not only stirred within himself, but that somehow (well, duh, the drift) tendrils of longing came through, slyly, deferential, from Hermann, and Newt was overwhelmed, captivated with the possibilities…

Then Hermann pulls away.

Gripping the phone tightly, dropped once again in the here-and-now, Newt forces himself to watch as Hermann attempts to stand, and the resulting stumble is pronounced. The camera moves away then, thankfully, and Newt remembers grabbing at Hermann, stopping a fall that should have been glaringly indicative of dysfunctional axons – Newt’s immediately transplanted to his neurosciences days at MIT, hours-upon-hours of action propagation potentials and chemical synapses, of neural interfaces and neurorobotics, substantial areas of expertise that gave him the ability to build his own fucking pons machine – out of scrap, for god’s sake! – yet didn’t give him the edge to notice that the man he purported to care for so much was suffering a substantial disintegration of his nervous system.

The understanding of his own failure sets on course half a dozen sinking internal bricks; guilt, disgust, ugly self-loathing, shame, _fear,_ all falling rock-weight with a surge of irrevocable loss, disseminating throughout his body, pulling maliciously at Newt’s own misaligned brain.

_Oh god, ohgod-ohgod-ohgod…_

Air is forced from his lungs as panic grips his chest, vice-like; crimson copper is seeping between his teeth as blood pours.

His own disconnect is never painless – he can literally feel the severing of brain from a heart shattering into splintering shards, anger-poison tipping the points. The phone is thrown across the room, desk contents are swiped to the floor, and his hands grab furiously at his hair, pulling, pulling, at the noise in his skull. Tears are streaming, he’s muttering to himself, eyes flailing about the room for another victim.

Hermann’s cane is lying on the floor.

The urge to impale himself on it is disturbingly overwhelming.

Newt just stares at it.

And the urge to die is disintegrated by a dull, throbbing ache in his head; his own frightened, noisy static attenuated by a stoic calm.

Blood is dripping. Drip, drip, drip.

Somewhere, his mother is singing _“Drip, drip, drip, little April showers”_ and his brain is exploding and shrinking and he’s falling, falling, falling into nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

_Nothing uncoils itself into a throbbing headache, and blue-black skies, blue fog, silver-blue birches._

_Grass tickles bare feet._

_Newton walks._

_The silence is overpowering._

_He’s alone._

_He opens his mouth to scream but there’s no voice._

_Loneliness is lodged in his throat, infiltrating his lungs, and he’s certain it’ll drown him._

_***_

_Newton is 8 and, nearly 2 hours since final bell, he’s still waiting for Mom to pick him up from school._

_“Traffic,” is all he tells the pestering teachers._

_***_

_Newton is 13 and he agrees that Lucy Steele is hot; but doesn’t tell them that Danny Borden is drop-dead fucking gorgeous._

_He’s not sure what they’d do if they knew._

_***_

_Newton is 16 and blood seeps between his fingers, miniscule rivulets of anguish finally released._

_He knows he’s unbalanced, but it’s the only way – the quietest way – to maintain cohesion._

_***_

_Newton is 22 and he’s thankful the pinch-prickle of the tattoo gun will stain the scars into hiding._

_Professionalism and all that bullshit._

_***_

_Newton is still asleep – minutes, hours, days – and he’s aware that Hermann’s still missing in his head._

_Newton fears he's drowning._

 

* * *

 

When Newton finally wakes up, he’s breathing.

He’s alone.

In the dark.

He forces himself back to sleep.

When Newton wakes again – minutes, hours, days later? _Who the fuck knows?_ – he’s greeted by the same doctor who Newton had viciously chewed out.

He learns he’s been out for nearly 5 whole days. As soon as the doctor began his diatribe about neural overload, Newt quickly shushes him and asks for Hermann.

Dr. Gottlieb.

His partner.

No, clarification: his _lab_ partner, that is.

He learns that Hermann was moved out of the Shatterdome facility.

Newt clutches at the bedlinen, squeezing cotton, squeezing his eyes shut against this perpetual bombardment of bat-shit crazy reality; where’s that moment, that moment on the bench, his arm draped around Hermann, the static buzz in his head placated by a congruity never previously understood.

Except now, it’s fragmented, blown apart; each day since  _I fucking love this guy_ only serving to wield the hammer even harder against their tenuous intersection.

And because it’s _feeling,_ rather than unfeeling, Newt almost welcomes the familiarity of icy dread drifting up from his feet, clutching at his belly, sweeping upward as tears spring from his eyes and he needs to know:

“He’s alive, right?”

And the fractional hesitation in reply squeezes Newt’s heart in hot stricture, before the doctor simply nods, resting his hand on Newt’s arm. “Dr. Gottlieb is alive, and conscious, rest assured.”

_Thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck_ but his mouth, strangely, refuses to expand on his thoughts. Newton feels his skull become heavy with relief and he sinks into the bed.


	2. Don't Let Go

Newt is staring at the tray of barely inconsequential food before him.

He tightens his grip on the plastic fork in his hand and all he knows is that it should be Hermann’s hand in his own.

He knows this now. Now. Too late.

He knows that Hermann’s been transferred to Princess Margaret Hospital and Newt also knows, vows, promises, he’s got to get there. Sooner rather than later.

Because the Hermann circuit is still shorted out and the silence against his own maniacally charged brain is curiously unsettling. He’s stuck on static and he’s faintly aware of nagging lyrics about something oddly similar but he’s damned if he remembers who by.

Because Newton’s stuck in a dingy wing of the Shatterdome medical unit, while his partner‘s nervous system disintegrates from the other side of the channel and Newton knows – _I’d bet fucking money_ that Hermann’s alone and damn it, it’s not right.

Because he knows Hermann’s carefully constructed stockade was buttressed by masquerade and camouflage, wholly impenetrable and utterly infallible. Only Newt’s aware of the miniscule dropping of guard, the handful of times in their years of physical acquaintance that Newt caught a muffled grimace of pain, the hum of a shaky hand, the frustration etched in the twinge of lips.

Over the years, Hermann learned to permit Newt’s hand on his shoulder during those moments.

Just like Hermann learned to restrain his caustic bark whenever Newton couldn’t manage it.

They had a symbiosis, way before the drift intercepted and tangled with it.

Now, nothing.

Newton’s fork drops, unused.

Nothing. Static: an imbalance of charge. Nothing left but scar tissue where Hermann had literally been tattooed on his brain.

No, it’s not right, it’s bad news. Guilt stabs his belly and he balls his fists into his eyes in an attempt to stem the threat of tears prickling the edges of his vision.

He wants to yank his hair out at his own ineffectuality.

The scars hidden under inked Kaiju memories are practically screaming to be opened again because, fucking Christ, the pain wants to consume him.

_No. Man up, dude._

And Newt can’t help the mottled laughter escaping his mouth, because this whole perverse situation is bordering on ridiculous – the world is saved, Christ, how is it even possible that he couldn’t give a rat’s ass?

Newt even wishes for that life again – those exhausting months pre-breach close, post Kaiju. Because this new, weird, all-is-safe-but-everything’s-screwy world is staring at him, fangs bared, and it’s disturbingly similar to the abhorrent monster in his head, which resurrects itself masticating shreds of sanity and stability in its teeth.

_It_ lurks now and Newt can’t close that breach.

How can the purported saviours of the world find it so utterly and deplorably difficult to save themselves? Between Hermann’s propensity for a counterfeit, defiant stiff upper lip and Newton’s ramshackle, medicated excuse for a brain, there wasn’t much scope for improvement.

In a bid for distraction from that hideously debilitating line of thought – _just don’t go there, seriously –_ he fumbles for his phone and tries texting again:

Herms>> Hey. Newt again plz tell me ur ok

Herms>>i miss u dude

And he hesitates before typing out the rest, but then, why? Why not? It’s apparent from the previous attempted messages that either, 1. Hermann’s not got his phone or 2. Hermann’s ignoring him or 3. Physicality prevents a reply.

Most likely, options 2 and 3.

Hopefully, just option 3, though the thought brings with a twinge of guilt – _you’re fucked up, Geizler._

Most likely, not option 1 – though not entirely improbable. But Newt knows that Hermann faithfully carried his phone in his blazer pocket – _life tries to carry on in spite of the Kaiju, Dr Geizler, and only a fool such as yourself would be so perversely idiotic as to pretend otherwise._ Newt wonders now at the weighted, inferred, unsaid meanings behind those words: _I am unwell, Dr Geizler, and only a fool such as yourself would be so perversely idiotic as to pretend otherwise._

He flails himself back against too many pillows, the hypocrisy almost typically endearing of Hermann.

Newt sends another text message.

Herms>> fyi i meant it

Herms>> fyi means for ur info. just. FYI.

Herms>> what i said 2 u

Herms>>& ur not going to do this alone

And he types out _cuz_ _i love u_ but cannot send it. Not yet.

Hermann would hate to receive such news via text message. Some things need to be said, need to be felt, heard… tasted, experienced, understood.

Implicitly. The understanding needs –

But thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of Marshall Hansen.

Newton gulps.

Hansen stops at the foot of bed. “How are you, Doctor?” His awkwardness is painfully apparent.

“Um. Okay. I guess. H-How are you holding up? And call me Newt. Please, dude.”

Herc sighs. “We keep going. That’s all we can do. Newt.”

Newt gulps again, quickly realising something’s amiss. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”

“No. I’m sorry. To do this. I-“ Swallow. “Look, I’m just giving ya’ a heads up here.” He moves closer, to guest chair, and Newt then spots the newspaper curled in his hand. “The UN are asking questions. The Board of Inquiry is wants to speak to us. The media is hot on Dr Gottlieb’s, uh, condition.”

_It wasn’t me!_ is the only discernible sentence in his head. “What the fuck? How’d – I mean,”

Herc unrolls and tosses _The Standard_ at Newt. It lands on the neglected food. Newt wants to smirk, but the headline makes his blood run cold: _Drift hero debilitated by neurological disease_

The text beneath the merciless headline fizzles blurrily, but words within the article body stand out, tapping at his skull, screaming at him: _Geizler; pons; neural; hero; degenerative…_

His hand flies out, the trolley table is pushed, and Newt fights the urge to scramble away, feeling himself burned.

The ink is poisonous; it practically glows an obscene blue.

He doesn’t look at Herc.

“No.” He mutters. “They can’t! Hermann’ll… he – it – It’s none of their business!”

Herc’s voice is barely a whisper. “They’re asking questions. The public are asking questions. Why – why people… died. And how two K-Sci employees managed to drift. With a Kaiju. Unsanctioned.”

Newt exhales a shaky breath, resting his head back and forcing his eyes shut because damn it, he heard the subtle inflection in Herc’s voice over _died_ and _no shit Sherlock, the guy’s kid died saving YOUR ass…_ but this isn’t important now. This isn’t what he needs to discuss; Newt knows he has to give a shit, be more receptive to the man’s pain and yet, he can’t – the physicality of the task is too obscenely impossible; he’s insensate, switched off, to everything, everyone.

Shut down. No one else matters now.

A strange growl jutters his throat. “The public are ask – Jesus. What does it friggin’ matter? Do people not realise it’s _over_ now? We saved their asses and this is how we’re repaid?”

Insensate bordering on cruel. Only then does he register the clamping of guilt. More guilt. _Not a cool thing to say…_

“There’s going to be an investigation, Doc- Newt.”

“The UN dropped our asses in it anyway! I remember ‘cause Herms went bat-shit-“ He stops, forcing himself to behave; Hermann would be proud, he’s sure. Well, if he didn’t have an aneurysm about his medical history being made public.

Newt knows this latest information won’t be received terribly well. “Herms and I did the reports about what happened, that’s all –“

God damn it, this isn’t what he needs to discuss. This isn’t important.

Herc drops his gaze. “Yes. I know. Thank you. Especially considering…” He clasps his hands behind his back. “I need you need to attend, Newton. The hearing.”

Newton shakes his head. “Fine. Whatever. But for the record? This is bullshit. And I’m sorry I’m not being more professional or whatever, but seriously, this is bullshit.”

He nods. “I agree.”

Fuck it, now or never: “Do you know how he’s doing?”

Herc sighs, loudly, and tries to turn away. “I’m not –“

Newt twists to face him, finger aimed. “And if you tell me you’re not allowed, that’s bullshit too, because you told me what was going on in the first place and –“

“Newton…“

But he won’t allow himself to hear. He focuses on the newspaper again, concentric blobs of oil appearing; he focuses on the Gottlieb, and decides the font is crap. “A part of me’s missing. I know that sounds crazy; well, it’s me saying it, of _course_ it’s motherfucking crazy, but I don’t-“ And Newt balls his fists into his eyes because amid his superfluous self pity, he’s forced himself to remember that Herc’s drift partner – his child – is _dead – and you keep forgetting, dumbass –_ and yet, he’s sitting here, doing his professional duty, listening to Newt spill his guts about feeling broken. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just… I need to shut up. You can tell me to shut up. Anytime.”

Silence yawns, and Newt concentrates on ensuring the sob trapped in his throat doesn’t escape.

He’s about to lose the battle.

Then, Herc sighs and inhales deeply. “Block C. Fourth Floor. Ward M. Room 6. Go. Just do me a favour and don’t speak to the press.”

Ten minutes later, Newt’s extracted his cannula – incorrectly, he’s sure, but whatever – and he’s dressed. He doesn’t bother with his hair.

* * *

He barrages his way through the press, who – fair play to them, the bastards – were intent on getting something.

He’s thankful he’s not epileptic, given the amount of flash photography.

He regrets not fixing his hair. But, well, needs must and all that.

It’s getting late, it’s getting dark – and freezing. And the hospital feels quiet, subdued. Newt only asks for directions once, in fractured Cantonese, but it’s not necessary. He’s recognised, and practically dragged to his destination.

He clumsily bows his thanks outside the closed door.

He turns to the door and his previous urgency fizzles to the linoleum, gone. His hand trembles on the door and he hesitates, suddenly besieged with disabling self-doubt, anxiety claws and writhes in his belly, rooting him to the floor: Will Hermann even want to see him?

He rests his forehead against the door, and fights the panic, forcing deep breaths.

Because he hadn’t even thought to consider –

“Newton?”

He jumps, banging his head, and he’s spinning wildly and Hermann is there, awake – Hermann is there, sat in front of him. Newt’s vaguely aware of the person pushing the wheelchair in which Hermann sits, he’s vaguely aware that Hermann’s dropped more weight, he’s somewhat aware of sheer exhaustion etched on his partner’s already angular face, and he’s sorta’ aware of the fact that Hermann’s called him _Newton_ but it’s all entirely inconsequential.

Tears pool in Newt’s eyes. “Oh my god.” He whispers. “Oh my god. Hermann. I…” His mouth won’t cooperate, and he blinks rapidly because – just because, damn it. He knows Hermann’s encountered Newt’s many extraneous weaknesses on numerous occasions, but now, it’s not about Newt.

It’s not about Newt.

It’s about – it’s about reconnecting.

Newt lunges forward and, leaning to Hermann’s right, wraps his arms around the stupidly skinny man he never thought he’d miss so much. And his circuitry is flooded with warm life, and the claws writhing in his stomach soothe themselves, and Newt’s no longer concerned about the tears. “Jesus, dude.” Newt breathes into Hermann’s neck.

_Don’t let go. Don’t let go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware there has been a plethora of amazing fics at the minute, and yeah, I'm guilty of comparing. 
> 
> At any rate, hope someone's enjoying.
> 
> Apologies for taking so long to post more....


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that I'm taking so long... my day job as a tech auth murders my creativity. Deadlines don't help.
> 
> Anyway.... hope someone enjoys. 
> 
> German translations at the end of the chapter.

Newt forces his eyes closed, ignoring the pin-pricks of tears in his nose – because, well, what the fuck, he’s been crying pretty much non-stop lately, what’s another bout amongst friends?

He clutches Hermann, tighter, feeling a desperate need to bring him close, to safety, to… comfort, contentment, away from the black noise so inexorable in its attempt to overwhelm… Hermann? Newt? Perhaps it’s Newt, perhaps it’s Hermann too. Can it be both?

Newt catches the hesitation in his brain, the precise location of the juncture because, damn it, is it ever really about anyone else?

“Jesus,” he mutters into the cool neck, and he feels his arm trembling.

It’s Newt’s own loneliness pulling him closer, counterintuitive to the necessary arm’s length required to prevent access to ingrained dissonance; his perpetually self-inflicted alientation, so previously manhandled, ignored, argued, tossed on the floor amidst rotting, xenobiological, samples - and it is, it truly _is,_ a sensation so alien, foreign, threatening to kill him: seclusion, desolation, isolation amid the masses of would-be admiring throngs.

But now, demarcation be damned, because life’s too short – now that life is probable – and Newt’s struggling against an ebb of anger at the stupid strip of tape so painstakingly plastered down the middle of the lab – and the knowledge that Hermann’s own loneliness, Hermann’s own constructed fortress, is so perversely linked to Newt’s own, despite Hermann’s attempts to remain partitioned. Because of the drift, in the drift, through the drift, Newt caught glimpses of a young child ruthlessly pushed to get lost in _pleasing_ , sans emotional fortification; a young man barricaded from the outside world, locked inside stoicism and a diagnosis _not_ pleasing…

_No, don’t get lost, don’t get lost in history…_

Because it’s like staring in through a lit window from the darkness outside, curtains open for the display of private life.

It’s not his history.

Newt’s history is fraught with emotion. And he fears its absence.

Hermann’s noticeably stiffened, most likely due to the _exorbitant length of time, Newton; really, this is entirely unnecessary_ he’s certain he heard Hermann inside his brain. But Hermann’s _trying_ to gingerly pat Newton across the back with his typically awkward mimicry of mistrusted human sentimentality.

It’s faintly reminiscent of Karla’s hand rubbing his back however many days ago.

And that’s when Newt understands it’s not his arm trembling, it’s Hermann who’s trembling; and Hermann’s not patting so much as creating an awkward rolling movement on Newt’s thoracic vertebrae. He’s punched with an image of the last MRI scan, the lesions in Hermann’s cerebellum and that’s when Newt’s mental foray into their harmoniously disjointed human condition disintegrates; he’s crashing back into reality with one long diatribe of _fuck fuck fuck…_

“Newton.” The tone is harried, thick with fatigue. The hand on Newt’s back falls away and Newt forces himself upright, reluctance permitting his fingers to trace a delicate path across Hermann’s shoulder before Newt’s own hand drops – forced – away.

The cold stings and he makes a fist to keep it out.

He notices Hermann’s wearing sweatpants and finds it strange.

He becomes uncomfortably aware of the other person behind Hermann, and shuffles to the side – keen to get _out of the way_ ; Newt’s conscious of a discombobulated streak of awkwardness, and he’s desperate to crawl away, get away, run away, because the unfamiliarity of this scene is raking pain through him, jarring instincts, tugging at the distorted bits of his brain long medicated to dormancy.

Newt’s not generally one to give in to whimsy, because – well, science debunked unicorns – but if only he could take Hermann with him, back to the lab, back to ladders, test tubes, and the push-pull of their impervious love-hate relationship… _let’s just take things back to where we were_ – it was easier, safer, negotiable back then.

But he’ll have to settle with merely moving out of the way because he’s damned if he’s turning back now.

Isn’t he?

He watches as the caretaker? nurse? orderly? pushes Hermann into his room, Newt’s gaze briefly drops to Hermann’s hands.

Rather than immediately follow, he hesitates in the doorway, cemented under the weight of a new nervousness at this very strange change in their ranking: Newt never looks _down_ at Hermann because Hermann’s always towered over him, Hermann’s always purported such discipline in the wake of Newt’s chaos , and Newt won’t deny his own reverence of the man.

Newt won’t deny is own need for Hermann’s ordered influence.

Hermann was – _no, dude, Hermann is_ – control, authority, obedience; the personification of a fine-tuned regulatory system.

And Newt finds himself almost begging for the usual castigation from Hermann, because he’s unsure how long this hacked-together, semi-responsible jurisdiction of himself will stand.

The wheelchair-pushing-dude, for lack of a proper title, whispers something to Hermann, and Newt faintly makes out the deferential _Doctor Gottlieb…_ he can’t help but wonder if the poor guy had suffered any of Hermann’s near-incessant outbursts about proper obeisance. Newt smiles at the thought, because if the hypothesis is correct, it’s proof that Hermann’s _still here._

Hermann nods his head, offers a curt “I’m fine” and the man takes his leave – the relief as he starts to exit is palpable.

“Don’ worry dude, he’s always grumpy.” Newt says, winking at the man, standing back to permit escape. The man doesn’t even glance at Newt as he exits.

Newt slips his hands into his jacket and meanders toward Hermann’s bed, dropping down.

He sweeps his eyes over Hermann again, taking in the too large t-shirt, thick robe, _sweatpants,_ before resting on his face, waiting.

They’re nearly level again.

But Hermann keeps his eyes down, and there’s a barely perceptible grimace as he hunches further into himself. “I’d rather you didn’t – hadn’t,“ A long pause. “Come here.”

Newt feels the barbaric sting of the words against his chest, but he’s refusing to bite. “What can I say, it’s boring being in the lab without someone to yell at me about throwing shit.”

Hermann meets his eyes, swallowing. “You had a seizure. You…” Another grimace. “You haven’t been _in_ the lab.”

Newt smiles. He tests again.“News travels fast, I see. Anyway, it’s totally beside the point, because I’ve been awake for days and my brain waves appear to be as normal as expected and, yeah, I had to get out of med-bay because you’ve no idea how seriously _bored_ I was getting. Well, you probably do, but you probably do something insane like wax lyrical about waveforms and do Fourier analyses until you’ve exhausted every possible function known to mankind because you’re Hermann freakin’ Gottlieb and you live, breathe, eat, _dream_ fucking math –“

“Maths.”

Newt feels his grin grow, because Hermann took the bait. “Whatever, we’ve argued this like fifty-billion times already. So, um, yeah. Um, Mako says Hi and Tendo misses you and me, well, I totally like, miss you – Amazing, right? So, uh, what – I mean, when are you coming back? ‘Cause I, like, seriously worry about my ability to remain _normal_ without you there to keep me real. Get it? Real?”

“Newton.”

Newt shifts nervously, clumsily withdrawing his hands from his pockets – one seemingly stuck for a moment and it’s fucking embarrassing how ridiculously uncoordinated he is. “Hermann, dude, in all seriousness, I’m so fucking glad you’re okay.”

Hermann squeezes his eyes shut, and Newt winces at his own pathetic choice of words. He tunes out the part of his brain prone to attack, because another layer of uncertainty would topple this already precariously towering situation.

“Sorry, I didn’t – I mean, I know” Newt scoots forward, resisting the urge to throw himself at Hermann’s feet. “I know. Dude, I know it’s not really okay.” He fights the need to touch the man cowering before him, because seeing Hermann without his usual stoicism, even in light of the few miniscule snares, is rapidly becoming incredibly disconcerting.

Not just disconcerting, downright _frightening._

“Of course you do.” Hermann’s eyes slowly trail to the pile of newspapers next to the bed.

Newt follows. “Shit,” he mutters, and he throws his hands up. “Okay, before you assume, it wasn’t me, I swear. I wouldn’t,” Newt sighs. “I wouldn’t do that. To you. Because it’s wrong and whoever’s responsible is a class-A douchebag. Herc gave me explicit instructions to not speak to the press. And I didn’t. Not one. And there are tonnes of ‘em.”

Hermann merely nods, a small cough rattling the too-skinny body, and he swallows again – Newt realises he’s having difficulty, swallowing, speaking, that much is apparent.

Newt tries again, falling into the usual rhythmic testing of Hermann’s limits: “I know you’re having issues talking or whatever, but I gotta’ tell you that the lack of seriously impressive words and run-on sentences is quite, um, odd.”

Hermann snorts, offering a small glare at Newt; Newt winces at the agony he sees.

“It’s better than before, yet…” Hermann’s voice trails off, and his eyes are forced shut and Newt watches the balled up fists in Hermann’s trembling hands.

And the tremor capitulates Newt, who’s grown cold at the stupidity of the last comment, and he’s on his knees and covering the quivering hands with his own steady ones. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t – Dude, look at me,” he breathes. “Hermann, look at me.”

So close, the usually fiery fawn is glassy with defeat.

“Okay, here’s the deal: We’re fucking rockstars, dude. You’re a fucking rockstar because you took this massive leap of faith a-a-and attached a pons to your head, in spite of… this, to _help me_ because you… well, I dunno, I guess you don’t hate me-“

“No, you idiot,”

Newt squeezes Hermann’s hand, weirdly thankful for the insult, “I know. You wouldn’t have done it, if you _really_ hated me. And I – hell, fucking humanity – wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. So that? That’s amazing. That’s awesome, dude. It’s… yeah.” He drops his head down, breathing deep for reinforcement before looking up again. “And I’m gonna’ do whatever is in my power to help get you through… this… shitter. For want of a better word.”

Hermann shakes his head, gazing imploringly at Newton. “Go home. It’s done.”

“What?! No way. I can’t do-“ He stops, seeing the distance beginning to stretch itself in Hermann’s eyes and somewhere in history, Newt hears his mother singing _your face, before me now,_ and he feels the way Hermann deftly coils into himself for safe keeping and Newt can’t suppress the first few waves of panic. “Don’t. Don’t do this. Hermann, the drift, everything in it, everything I saw, everything I heard, everything I _felt,_ and I know that you _felt it too_ so don’t you even – shit, dude, please, don’t shut me out. Not now. You’ve had me shut out for too long now and I can’t take…”

Newt forces his eyes to remain open to prevent excessive moisture. “…I need you, like, I just… I need you. I need you back.”

Hermann tries to pull his hand away from Newt. “I’m going back to the UK.” He looks away. He looks away from Newt. **Away** from Newt. “In four days.”

The words wash over Newt in a frigid wave, sucking at the heat churning within. He feels his face blanche. “O-oh.”

Hermann glances back, a nervous urgency meaning he’s incapable of looking directly at the man knelt before him. Newt can’t physically stop the hurt constricting his heart because to look at them now, he knows it wouldn’t seem possible that they’d actually melded their brains.

_Why the fuck’s this happening?_

This tensile disunion is sickening. Disturbing. Otachi had nothing on this level of fucked up.

“I’m not… I need…” Hermann is saying, trailing off again. Avoiding Newt’s face again.

 _Of course,_ and Newton nods, and he’s tempted to voice the unspoken admissions, if anything just to rankle Hermann, because _damn, that hurt_ , but no, not again. “Well, I’ve read it’s not too common here. Not like, um. Yeah. So I guess it’s better. For you. To go.”

_God, no. No. Don’t go._

“Go home, Newton.” Hermann’s hand jerks under Newt’s, and he’s conscious that Hermann never actually succeeded in the physical attempts at distance. “The world is saved.”

Newt grasps at a chance. “I’ll come to Britain, I’ll come see –“

“No, _nein,”_ And there’s a dangerous pitch, a warning, and Hermann’s hands jerk again.

Despite knowing better, Newt grips harder, shifting his weight on his knees and willing himself to fight fire with fire. “Stop, for god’s sake! _Stop_ fucking pushing me out.”

“Newton,” His tone is icy, and the working in his throat is harried as he swallows again.

Hermann tries to pull away again.

Newt lets him go.

But he’s not releasing so easily. “I saw. Okay? I saw. _I know_. I know that this _isn’t_ unrequited.” And without a hand to cling to, Newt’s fingers gently work a fractious, skittering thigh muscle, feeding the need to penetrate Hermann’s ridiculously opprobrious exoskeleton.

“Die Lage hat… sich geändert.” He murmurs, words fizzling as they’re released.

Excessive consonants throw him, and precious, extra seconds are needed to correlate with the correct lexicon. “What’s with – fuck it. Nothing’s changed, Hermann. Is this… is this a drift thing? A sick thing? A normal Hermann’s-being-obtuse thing? I’m _trying_ to tell you that I _care_ about you dude, and not in just the I-hope-you-get-better greeting card way, okay?”

Hermann’s momentarily shaking his head, before squeezing his eyes closed.

“The drift doesn’t lie, dude, does it?”

Hermann’s breathing is ragged. “No.” He surrenders. “But…”

“M’kay.” Newt breathes. “That’s a start. No Buts necessary.”

Hermann’s stares at him, shame, anger, resignation battling against something else, a flimsy desire, a fleeting neediness, _something_ that Newt’s never seen there before. The seconds stretch on, Hermann swallows again, and he imperceptibly straightens, attempting to gain some of their previously normal topography. “What-“

Newt gently rests his finger on Hermann’s lips, the touch sending sparks down his arm. “Don’t, let’s just, do one day at a time. You gotta’ get yourself better, and I gotta’ figure out British currency and accents.” He feels a sharp twinge in his left knee as the floor seems to harden further beneath him.

It’s irrelevant.

“Newton, I’m not-“

“Herms, please.”

“Musst du ständig,” A pause, and his voice climbs perceptively: “…dazwischenquatschen?!” Hermann barks.

Newt brings his hands up, submissive, slightly impressed with the ease and fervour German’s always enticed from him; despite Hermann’s odd Bavarian inflections – endearing, truly – the consonant-rich bark encapsulates his polite severity perfectly. “Dude, sorry, I just… Um. I’m shutting up.”

“Thank god. A-and don’t call me that.” His breath catches, and he grimaces. He glances at Newt again before dropping his eyes to his lap.

“You in pain?” Newt ventures.

Hermann’s eyes close; whether in gentle confirmation or quiet rejection, Newt’s not sure. “It’s not,” Sigh. “I can… cope.”

Newt pleads, desperate to end the charade: “I know that. But you don’t have to, Herms-Hermann. Not with me, you can give in to it. Y’know, just… not pretend. Not anymore.”

Hermann snaps his eyes open, spitting a fierce “You fool,” at Newton, dropping his left hand to the rim and jerking the chair away from Newt. “Raus!” He barks

Newt watches Hermann’s enervated attempt at escape, and he can’t stop pin-pricks of salt water at the wall of desperate distress shrouding Hermann… Newt’s brain bursts electric at the critically desponding atmosphere – Hermann’s shrinking ever further into his failing body and Newt’s standing– _kneeling, acquiescing –_ helpless, hopeless, haplessly shrinking further into his failing _go/don’t-go_ mind.

 _No, no, no-no-no-no-nononono…._ And the internal outcry is becoming external “…no, no, no, no, dude, fucking NO!” and Newt scrambles, stumbles, clumsy in black anguish and black Converse.

Newt does the unthinkable and invades.

Newt follows shaky hands to Hermann’s jaw and words tumble, regardless of the pain mirrored on Hermann’s face: “No, you’re not, you’re not – you’re _not_ fucking shrinking away because _I don’t give a rat’s ass_ about...this... _illness_ and the-the shaking and all that goes with it, so just stop pretending and _let me in_ because I freakin’ love your ass whether you like it or not and I… I keep saying _ass_ but it's... I'm...”

And the words dry up – and Newt feels his hands on Hermann’s face, and the stubble, and the tremors… and the chipping of bricks, the crumble of a wall, and it’s _enough…_

_Enough._

Enough. And Newt meets Hermann’s lips with his own.

 

\--TBC--

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musst du ständig dazwischenquatschen (colloquial) - must you keep interrupting
> 
> Die Lage hat sich geändert – the situation has changed
> 
> Raus – Get out!

**Author's Note:**

> “Sie sind ihm nicht.” You are not him  
> “Ich habe mich in ihn verliebt.” I’m in love with him.  
> “Wo ist mein Bruder?” Where is my brother?  
> “Hast du meinen Bruder getötet?” Have you killed my brother?  
> “Ich bin nicht tot.” I am not dead.


End file.
